Regina Scott (8 page)

“And apparently I’m also to hire a footman to spare your back. Are your duties too much for you, Miss Pyrmont?”

Feeling as if she’d been attacked, Emma raised her head, as well. “Not at all. I have never complained.”

“Not to me. But it seems you have a great many things to confide in Sir Nicholas.”

She made it sound as if Emma had been angling for prettier clothes, easier working conditions. Nothing could have been further from the truth. But Emma knew she had to go carefully. Whether Sir Nicholas realized it, whether the rest of the staff appreciated it, Mrs. Dunworthy held the power over the household. If she took Emma in dislike, she could most likely prevail even against Sir Nicholas to have Emma discharged.

Emma kept her gaze on the wall, her body still, her face neutral. That had been the best way to respond to her foster father’s tirades, if escape wasn’t an option.

“I asked for nothing,” she said. “I’m very happy in my position.”

“And well you should be.” Mrs. Dunworthy approached in a rustle of lustring that somehow sounded menacing in the otherwise quiet room. “I knew of your unfortunate circumstances. You explained how you fled Mr. Fredericks’s employ, how you feared he might pursue you here. What did I tell you?”

Emma’s mouth felt dry, and she licked her lips. “You said that I would be safe in this house so long as I gave good service.” She knew the woman would likely take a direct look as a challenge, but despite herself, she turned her gaze to meet Mrs. Dunworthy’s. “And I have given good service, madam. I love Alice, and she loves me.”

Mrs. Dunworthy held up one finger, and Emma snapped her mouth shut and her gaze back to the wall.

“Do not for one moment think your affections for my niece nor hers for you will sway my opinion,” the woman insisted. “I expect unswerving loyalty and uncompromising duty from each of my staff. Fail me, Miss Pyrmont, and you will be gone with the light.”

“Yes, Mrs. Dunworthy,” Emma murmured. What did the woman want her to do, beg for her position? Promise Emma would never gainsay her? She wasn’t sure that was the truth. She already questioned some of Mrs. Dunworthy’s rules, like the way she sometimes treated Alice more like a pet spaniel than a beloved child.

Father, help me. You know I’ve done nothing wrong. You protected me from Mr. Fredericks. I need Your protection now, too.

“Listen closely,” Mrs. Dunworthy said, voice firm with conviction. “I will ask you a question, and I want an honest answer. Are you throwing yourself at my brother-in-law?”

Emma recoiled. “No! I would never presume—”

“Quite wise of you,” she interrupted, eyes narrowing to slits. “Nicholas Rotherford could do far better than an orphan who is not even acknowledged by her foster family, long before his work earned him a knighthood from the crown. It will take a queen to replace my sister in his affections, certainly not his daughter’s nanny.”

Emma felt as if her heart wilted at the reminder. What, was she hoping Sir Nicholas might think otherwise? That the next time he touched her he would press a kiss against her knuckles like the courtiers in the books she read? Natural philosophers didn’t react that way from what she’d seen. Besides, she didn’t want to marry someone who had to be coaxed away from his work, who had to be reminded that he had a daughter. She thought perhaps he was changing, but he was not the man she’d read about, she’d dreamed of.

“Of course, madam,” Emma murmured with what she hoped sounded like respect.

Mrs. Dunworthy regarded her another moment, aristocratic nose pointing in accusation. Then she straightened and turned back toward her desk.

“So,” she said as she took her seat once more, “if you are not attempting to catch his eye, what am I to make of his sudden interest in you?”

Would the truth be enough to allow her to keep her position? She could think of no other way to phrase it. “It’s not me he’s interested in,” she confessed. “It’s Alice.”

Mrs. Dunworthy waved a hand. “Doubtful. He has done little for Alice since the day she was born.”

Which hurt just to think about. “All the more reason she needs her father,” Emma persisted. “I simply thought that if I could bring them together more often, he’d realize what a darling girl she is. He’d want to spend time with her.”

“I see,” Mrs. Dunworthy said. She rubbed one finger against her nose. “So you would have it that all this attention came about because you wished to make Sir Nicholas a better father, perhaps have him be the father for Alice you wished you had had.”

The statement opened old wounds, made her feel raw. Yet she could not deny it. She wanted Alice to have better than she’d had. She wanted the little girl to have the best.

“I suppose so, madam,” she said. “I’m sorry if that was overstepping my bounds.”

Mrs. Dunworthy lowered her hand. “It was entirely beyond the scope of your duties, but I cannot disagree with your approach. He should give Alice more attention. If that is the goal of your campaign, Miss Pyrmont, you have my unqualified endorsement and everlasting gratitude.”

Chapter Eight

H
e was avoiding his work. Nick could not deny it. First he’d lingered over breakfast with Alice yesterday, and today he’d done no more than peruse his notes before discovering a fervent desire to speak to Charlotte about Miss Pyrmont’s gowns. Her gowns, for pity’s sake! That appeared to be the best he could do by way of the present he’d promised Alice he’d find her nanny. Was there ever a man more intent on malingering?

And why? Had he truly begun to believe the accusations leveled against him?

He could still see their faces, his colleagues who had decided to make themselves magistrate and jury. As one of a team of philosophers working to develop a safety lamp, he’d felt his own contribution to be regrettably small, merely the calculation of the heat efficiency of the material. But their leader, Samuel Fredericks, had disagreed.

“My lords, gentlemen,” he’d said as he’d stood in front of the table over which their president, Sir Joseph Banks, presided. “I have studied our approach, gone over our calculations with exacting concentration. I simply could not understand how such a mistake could have been made.”

Behind him, the society members seated on their hardwood pews were as stern-faced as the men in the gilt-framed portraits crowding the walls. The high-ceilinged room used by the society for its deliberations had never felt so confining.

“Nevertheless, Mr. Fredericks,” Sir Joseph said on the other side of the table, leaning forward from his padded chair that Nick had always thought resembled a throne, “four people are dead. I am all for scientific progress, but not when it exacts such a toll.”

His round face was solemn, his silvery hair sticking out on either side like handles on a pot. The men around him murmured their assent.

“I cannot tell you how this accident grieves me,” Fredericks had assured him, deep voice solemn. “But I am able to report that I discovered where we went wrong. I regret to inform this council that this experiment failed because of the gross miscalculations of Nicholas Rotherford.”

Heads jerked in his direction, faces slack with shock. Nick had gripped the back of the pew in front of him to keep from rising. “That cannot be,” he told them all. “I was careful in my calculations. I even had Davy review my work.”

“He did indeed,” the famed chemist piped up. “It seemed fine work to me, completely in accordance with the circumstances.”

Fredericks’s smile was hard. “Circumstances that had changed since I originally made those calculations. Oh, yes, gentlemen, it was easy for me to determine what had gone wrong once I recognized the problem. I accuse Nicholas Rotherford of plagiarism.”

The murmurs grew in volume, forcing Nick to his feet. “I deny it. That was my own work, and it should have held up in the field.”

“Certainly I do not make such an accusation lightly,” Fredericks said, voice as ponderous as his look. “I have proof. I request that a group be commissioned to review the information objectively. And when that commission determines the truth, I ask that you not allow such an offense to go unpunished.”

Nick had sat, unblinking, certain it was all a mistake. The commission would review his work, exonerate him, identify the true problem that had cost those miners their lives.

“These are serious matters,” Sir Joseph had said, thick fingers bound around the arms of his chair. “You can be sure we will give them due consideration.”

They had. It had taken the commission Sir Joseph had appointed a full week to order Nick from the society, to refuse to share any further information with him. Only Sir Humphry Davy had taken his side.

“This is a travesty, Rotherford,” he’d said as he shook Nick’s hand in farewell that day in London. “I’ll keep pushing for a more thorough investigation.”

Nick had heard nothing further in the four months since. It mattered not. He knew he hadn’t plagiarized Fredericks’s work. But the thought that his mistake had caused the accident haunted him.

So Nick had retreated. He thought at least a few said he was hiding. He had another reason for moving to Derby. The distance provided a buffer. With him more than a hundred miles away from Fredericks and any other scientist, no one could claim his work, or any mistake, was anything but his own.

Of course, first he had to actually achieve something from the effort. It was one thing to work in theory—determine how a combination of liquids and solids might interact with the gaseous firedamp dozens of feet underground. It was another to combine those materials and test their efficacy without endangering others. So far, the results had been less than satisfactory.

Still, he kept at it that day and the next, until someone knocked at the door of his laboratory.

Nick pulled out his pocket watch and consulted it. Not time for tea or for someone to remind him of a dinner he was about to miss. Ears attuned for any other sound, he glanced out the window. No one seemed to be calling for help on what appeared to be a sunny day. Surely his staff knew he was not to be disturbed.

Someone knocked again.

He should ignore it. It was an interruption, a distraction. He had more important things to do. He enjoyed confronting impossible problems, failing to find solutions. In fact, failure was his bread and butter lately.

Nick rose and opened the door. Alice clutched a bunch of lavender in her tiny hand. “We picked flowers for your laboratory, Papa. Miss Pyrmont said they would make it smell better.”

Miss Pyrmont would certainly have some knowledge of smells, given the way she’d recently rescued him. “How thoughtful,” he said. “Unfortunately, it’s rather important that I know how my work smells. That’s one of the ways I can be certain I’ve combined the chemicals properly.”

Alice’s face folded in on itself as it was wont to do when she was unhappy about something. “Don’t you like flowers, Papa?”

Flowers had rarely appealed to him, but he liked less that look, particularly when it was directed at him.

“I think perhaps they would be better suited to his study,” Miss Pyrmont said.

Nick blew out a breath. The woman had an uncanny ability to smooth things over. “Excellent suggestion,” he said and was relieved to see Alice brighten again.

It took so little to change her mood. Ann had been the same way. He and his wife had gotten on well when they were younger, but once they were married, he’d never been certain which word or gesture of his would set her spirits plummeting. It had made conversation difficult.

“We were just going for a walk in the woods,” Miss Pyrmont said. “Perhaps you’d like to join us.”

Alice nodded eagerly, free hand reaching for the closest of his. He felt his work pulling from the opposite direction.

“I regret that matters require my attention,” he tried.

This time Alice ignored him, fingers wrapping around his.

“A shame,” Miss Pyrmont agreed, moving to take Alice’s hand. Nick could feel his daughter slipping away and had to fight the urge to pull her closer. “Remember, we don’t want to stand in the way of your father’s progress, Alice.”

Once again Alice did not look nearly so sure.

“Actually, there isn’t a lot of progress being made this afternoon,” Nick admitted. “I seem to have stumbled to a halt.”

As Alice gazed up at him, Miss Pyrmont smiled. “Perhaps you need a change of scenery. I read somewhere that fresh air can be conducive to clearing the mind.”

Alice glanced between the two of them. “Are you coming after all, Papa?”

Her high voice vibrated with an emotion he’d all but forgotten: hope. Truly, would a few more moments away hurt anything? His chemicals would still be sitting there, refusing to ignite. His problems weren’t going anywhere. It might help to forget about them for a time.

“Yes, Alice,” he said. “I believe I will. Thank you for inviting me.”

* * *

Emma wanted to shout in triumph, but she settled for a smile as they returned to the house long enough to leave the flowers in Mrs. Jennings’s care.

She still could not believe her luck. First Mrs. Dunworthy had encouraged her to bring Alice and her father closer together, and now Sir Nicholas had agreed to walk with them. Add that walk to the moments spent at breakfast yesterday morning and dinner tonight, and he would have spent more time in his daughter’s company this week than in the previous three months of Emma’s employment.

Of course, not everything had gone well. Mrs. Dunworthy had been popping in to the nursery more frequently yesterday and this morning, as if suspecting that Emma had somehow been neglecting her charge. Today, for example, she had arrived just as Emma and the little girl were sitting on the carpet, dressing Lady Chamomile in a fresh outfit.

“And what is the occasion?” Mrs. Dunworthy had asked, smiling down at her niece even as Emma stood out of respect. “Tea with the queen, perhaps?”

“No, Auntie,” Alice had giggled. “Dinner with Papa! Lady Chamomile is looking forward to it.”

Mrs. Dunworthy shook her head. “Lady Chamomile has not been invited. Dolls are for the nursery, Alice, not a fine table where grown-up ladies eat.”

Emma felt her muscles stiffening. Didn’t Mrs. Dunworthy know how much Alice depended on the doll? Surely if Lady Chamomile was allowed to come once or twice, Alice would feel comfortable enough going on her own in future.

“Then perhaps I’m not so grown up,” Alice said, lower lip quivering.

Emma knew she should be silent when her mistress was addressing Alice, but she couldn’t bear to see the little girl unhappy for such a trivial thing.

“But you are growing up, Alice,” she said, kneeling so that she could look the girl in the eye. “See how tall you are now! You can’t give up eating dinner with your father. I know you’re looking forward to it, too.”

“But who will keep Lady Chamomile company?” Alice protested.

Mrs. Dunworthy took a visible breath before patting Alice on the head. “It is sweet that you are so devoted to your doll, dear, but there are times when we must put such childish things behind us.”

“But Papa wouldn’t mind,” Alice insisted. “He likes Lady Chamomile.”

“Your father,” Mrs. Dunworthy said, voice hardening as she drew back her hand, “does not run this household. He has left such matters to me. I will not spend my dinner with a doll. I shall expect to see you tonight without it.” She picked up her skirts as if the nursery floor had dirtied them and swept from the room.

Once again, Emma had to still her trembling, but this time she knew it wasn’t fear but anger that caused it. She understood the need to guide children. The Bible said children should be raised properly so they would not depart from that path as they grew older. But did it follow that children should have their spirits crushed, their imaginations stifled, for them to become good members of Society? She had been subjected to such treatment, and she didn’t see that it had done any good.

Anything good I learned from You, Father!

“It will all come out right, Alice,” she had promised her charge, who was blinking her eyes as if fighting tears. “Just think, if Lady Chamomile cannot join us, you’ll have grand stories to tell her. And I’ll ask Mrs. Jennings to make something special, just for her.”

Now as Emma, Alice and Sir Nicholas started across the lawn behind the Grange, she considered asking him for permission to bring the doll to dinner tonight. As easily as he’d interacted with Lady Chamomile, surely he wouldn’t mind if it sat at the table. But after his altercation with his sister-in-law earlier, she couldn’t help thinking that she’d only be borrowing trouble, for her and Sir Nicholas both.

Then, too, his mind already seemed to be wandering. Though he walked beside Alice, his head was bowed, and Emma didn’t think the grass they were crossing was occupying his thoughts.

But the greenery did give her another idea on how to draw him out.

“Do you know anything about the flora and fauna here, Sir Nicholas?” she asked as Alice swung her hand back and forth and hummed to herself.

His head came up, and he regarded the trees they were approaching. “My forte is the physical properties of materials, not botany, I fear. But my father brought me up here every summer when I was a child and on school holidays afterward, so I learned something about the area.”

He nodded to the woods as branches wove their way above them. “These oaks, for instance, are not native to the grounds but were planted by the original owner for future firewood.”

Emma glanced at the trees, their limbs drooping heavily, their tops filtering the sunlight in shafts of gold. Birds flitted through the light, calling; butterflies danced on the air. The breeze set the leaves to chattering, brought her the scent of water. She could imagine one of her favorite heroes, Robin Hood, leaping across the path.

“A shame to think of cutting these down,” she murmured.

“They would make a very big fire,” Alice said.

“I quite agree,” her father said seriously, “but perhaps we should keep them standing for a few more generations.”

Emma saw the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but Alice’s tug was more insistent, and Emma released her to allow the girl to skip ahead on the pebbled path. How she would have loved such freedom when she was Alice’s age. She’d already been set to scrubbing floors in the asylum, and the streets of London weren’t as friendly as the Grange woods.

“Is she truly lonely?” he murmured.

Emma regarded him in surprise. His gaze had followed his daughter, his steps had slowed. The fingers of one hand were tapping at the side of his trousers, as if keeping time with his thoughts. Could her seeds yesterday morning be bearing fruit already?

“I believe so,” Emma replied. “You may have noticed that she is rather dependent on the good graces of a certain doll.”

“The capricious Lady Chamomile,” he surmised. “You said you’d dealt with other children. Are Alice’s affections for the doll typical?”

She didn’t want to give him cause to be concerned. Fear was no way to motivate a father, or anyone else, she knew from experience. “Given that she lost her mother so young and suddenly finds herself in new surroundings, I think she’s coming along marvelously well. So long as she knows you love her, she will flourish anywhere.”